Penumbra
by VivaCohen
Summary: Sally suspects that something is not quite right with Sherlock when he blacks out in front of her. She makes it her mission to solve this mystery and finds that they are more alike than she had hoped. Big appearances by Lestrade included.
1. Chapter 1

Sally sat at her desk, a newspaper in one hand and a coffee in the other. This was the only break she got all day and she reveled in the hot steam wafting from her cup. Most of her coworkers went out for lunch or retreated to their offices if they were higher rank. Not Sally. She liked the momentary calm that suddenly overtook the usually busy office at the exact same time every day. She liked the fact that the sudden hush that came over the usually bustling floor was due to her coworkers being so predictable; just as Sally's coffee and newspaper made their appearance every day at exactly 12:45 p.m., everyone followed their own routines. Like watching the same film over and over, Monday through Friday. Predictable. Reliable. Boring. After a lifetime of unreliable people and unpredictable cases, Sally was grateful for the daily reprieve.

Sally sighed with content and was about to reach for her cup when she heard a bump to her left. Glancing up, she absent-mindedly noted that the freak had come in and a few stragglers (the usual) were predictably late for lunch. Sally wondered if someone is late by the same amount of time every day, are they actually on time? She wondered why they didn't just change their lunch time to five minutes later, and if they did, would they be late for the new time as well? She caught herself sneering at their perpetual tardiness, equating it to unreliable character, but abruptly pushed the thought aside, intent on enjoying her only down time of the day.

Again, she reached for her cup, watching the last of the stragglers filing out the door, some in a hurry (Predictable), some taking their time, already late, what's the point of rushing? (Predictable). Some with their noses in a file while others chatted about mundane topics they had read in the tabloids that morning (Predictable, predictable). She glanced at the freak again, wondering what new trouble he was going to start up this time, but refused to let this inevitable fact mar her favorite part of the day. She almost laughed at how her own judgments of her coworkers so closely resembled that of the freak's. 'Predictable, predictable, boring…' The thought of _him _rubbing off on her made her queasy. Unlike Sherlock, Sally appreciated these moments of boring predictability amidst a fast life of cops and robbers and Sherlocks. She sipped her steaming coffee and reveled in the new stillness of the now almost-empty office. She lifted her paper off the desk and began to read the latest political column when another bump distracted her. Had it been from across the room? This was not predictable, she thought, annoyed, even though she knew it was petty to feel this way in an office she shared with so many other people.

She scanned the room for the culprit. her eyes fell back to Sherlock just in time to see him take a small step then fall back onto the desk he had apparently been sitting on, again making a bumping noise. Ve looked bizarrely tipsy. Sally decided that maybe they should do another drugs bust on the freak's flat. Still, the freak didn't look well, she noted curiously, dreading the possibility of having to perform CPR on the psychopath if he did suddenly OD and go into a convulsive fit from god knows what, what with her duty as a cop and all, she reassured herself. Still, however much this little episode of his was interrupting her predictable afternoon, it _was _strangely fascinating. She considered approaching him in his weakened state; strike when the enemy is vulnerable and all that. 'What the hell, then?' she thought. This was too good to pass up.

Sally stood resolutely from her chair and marched toward Sherlock, who was now perched on the edge of Dimmock's desk. "Oi, freak!" she began, just as she reached the aforementioned desk, the exact moment the freak decided to try for another stand -

The freak was in front of Sally, and then, suddenly, he wasn't. This, being the first thing that went through Sally's mind, she cursed herself moments later for having such an obvious, stupid thought. For a moment she was puzzled and continued to stare at the now empty space in front of her. After the initial confusion, she looked down at the limp body that was suddenly splayed out before her feet.


	2. Chapter 2

'Oh, bollocks! Just my luck' she thought, resentfully. In officer mode, she knelt by the prone body, grabbed one pale, limp wrist between her own mocha-colored fingers and searched for a pulse. Weak and thready, but there, she noted. The skin was cold, and pale, even by the freak's standards. Turning the body over, Sally noted how light it was. Sherlock had been out of the country on a case for five weeks now, and she was sure he hadn't had those hollows in his cheeks before he left. Definite weight loss, _extreme _weight loss. Sherlock had always been thin and bony, but Sally had never actually touched him before. In some ways, the idea that Sherlock was touchable had never occurred to her before. He was always on another plane, like some cerebral alien only borrowing a body for a short stay on Earth. Like a hologram, he couldn't be real, could he? But there she was, hands pushing the great wool coat out of the way, fingers unbuttoning the wine-colored shirt, preparing to resuscitate the idiot. Sally stared down at what must have been the thinnest waist she had ever seen, ribs jutting out like a birdcage under stretched human flesh. It was both revolting and hypnotizing at once. She should be doing something, calling someone, but the only thought that made it to the forefront of her mind was that she was, indeed, correct. 'This proves he isn't real. It proves it', she concluded. 'Or does it prove he _is _real?' Either way, this wasn't good.

She sprung into action, as if the moments she had lost whilst frozen in her singular thought now sped up double the speed to make up for lost time. Bringing her hands up and over Sherlock's heart, she hesitated, hands hovering over the bird-boned chest below her, unsure if CPR was a good idea on such a weakened body. Still in cop mode, she made a definitive decision, as making no decision at all seemed worse to her than at least trying to bring the git back from the brink. The brink of what? Definitely worth another drugs bust, maybe even justified this time, she thought, somewhere in the back of her mind.

Just as she placed the palms of her hands onto the pale flesh below, cringing at the sharp bones poking into her own flesh, a sudden jolt of movement from the body below startled her. She lost her balance at the scare and tumbled onto her backside. Two grey, alien eyes were suddenly on her, wide but blank, still and unnerving. It was rare to see those eyes so uncalculating, so devoid of judgment or suspicion. Always flitting about and piercing whatever object that took the odd detective's interest in the moment; always letting onto the _thinking thinking thinking_ that never seemed to stop. Those eyes that never stilled, always whirring away, always searching- Now, suddenly, deadly still. Sally was frozen on the spot, some unnamed fear of moving, as if she were prey for a starving tiger. She felt caught out. Caught out for what? She wasn't sure. For caring? For doing? For not doing? For once, Sally knew more about a situation than Sherlock did and it felt all wrong. In some other situation she would have gloated about it, but now it only made her uncomfortable.

As if the situation at hand had suddenly revealed itself, the vacant stare was gone, as if it hadn't been there at all, replaced now by a familiar, frigid glare. Thin, white fingers fumbled for the parted shirt, quickly covering the hollow abdomen and jutting ribcage. As if Sally hadn't already had an ample view of the mess of a body now concealed under the cloth. The familiar glare of those cold eyes did not stray from her own eyes until the shirt was pulled securely around the torso.

"Sally." Sherlock greeted, false friendliness ill-masking disdain for the officer hovering over him. Nothing new there.

"Ah, you're back, then." Sally retorted, trying for sarcasm. She cringed as her voice came out with more of a tremble than she had intended. She knew she was supposed to feel unrelenting hatred for the detective, per usual, but all she could feel was a shaking in her hands. It was difficult to feel offended by a man sprawled out on the hard, dirt-plastered carpet of Scotland Yard. She didn't like it. She didn't like it one bit.

After a few moments of awkward silence, the consulting detective was beginning to understand what had transpired and how he had come to be lying partially de-clothed on the floor of Scotland Yard with one very shaken up Sally Donavan leering down at him. Conclusion: he had blacked out. The idea that Detective Donovan would do anything other than laugh over his possibly dying self produced more than a little confusion. This was unpredictable, in a bad way. This was not what he knew. This was murky, human, dangerous. This was uncomfortable, both figuratively and literally. The hard grey carpet started to make his head pound. Or had it been pounding already? He wasn't sure. Suddenly, as if hit by a freight train, his body ached, muscles sore all over, with the weight of his own body weighing down on him as if gravity had increased ten-fold within the last few seconds. With shaky arms and hands that weren't quite cooperating, he began to push himself up into a sitting position, flinching at the sudden strain on his muscles.

Sally realized his intent and instinctively reached under his arms, pulling him into a sitting position. The thin, shaky arms grabbed for the cloth of the shirt again, hugging it tight around the boney torso.

"You passed out." Sally stated matter-of-fact, not sure of what to say in this situation, to Sherlock, of all people.

"Obviously." came the droll reply, dripping with the usual signs of a well-fueled superiority complex. 'Well, not that, apparently.' Sally quipped in her head, rolling her eyes. "Well, you're awake now. I'll call an ambulance." Sherlock began to get the feeling back in his fingers and began to do up the buttons of his shirt, then pulled his grey coat around his body once more before responding. "That won't be necessary." It came out authoritatively, per usual, but Sally couldn't help but notice his refusal to make eye contact with her as he re-clothed himself.

"You passed out. Your heart rate was _near gone_. You're ill- very ill. You need to go to hospital. And you need to quit whatever it is you're using that's turned you into, into, into-" Sally sputtered, unsure of how to describe the current state of Sherlock's body. Morbid? Grotesque? Sad? It didn't matter. The consulting detective was uninterested in hearing the rest of her thought anyway, as it were.

"I'm not _using _anything. You should know that. You've done enough _illegal _drugs busts over the past years to know very well that there is nothing illicit neither in my flat nor in my own person. If that's all, I think I'll be going now." With that, Sherlock pushed himself up partway then took hold of Dimmock's desk and hauled himself up as if he were lifting a horse. Sally watched with morbid fascination as the consulting detective swayed precariously on his feet, yet the expression on his face gave the impression that he was unaware of his body's current predicament, a look of untarnished pride plastered on that smug face of his. It was a strange sight, as if his body were disconnected from his head. A perfectly composed head atop a wobbling tower of a body. 'Fitting', sally thought, as she had always considered his head to be a bit disconnected from reality. But to see the idea play out physically was quite disturbing, almost indescribable, as if it were in a dream. Of course Sherlock, of all people, would refuse to look anything less than dignified while swaying like a drunken sailor. Sally would never admit it to herself, but in some dark corner of herself she found this idea irrationally impressive.

And with that, Sherlock turned on a wobbly heel and stalked towards the exit. Even without the great detective's keen observational skills, not even Sally could miss the pale hand trailing desks and shelves as it passed through the office, a vain attempt at staying upright. Sally wouldn't be surprised if the freak would have done the same thing if his head had been lopped off.


	3. Chapter 3

It had been two days since "the incident", as Sally had taken to referring to it in her own head. She never got around to telling anyone else. This was, in fact, true, but a part of her knew that it was only true because she had made it so. Keeping busy on the job and keeping distracted on her rare moments off the job had insured she wouldn't have a chance to bring up Sherlock's little fall. There was something inside her telling her it was out of bounds, off limits. Name calling, tampering with evidence, cruel jokes, cruel truths; all a part of the game. This - this was not a part of the game. This was real. And for that reason she couldn't stop thinking about it, about the freak. Something about the incident making Sally and Sherlock exist beyond their solidified identity as "Sally and Sherlock: mortal enemies" made her angry. Angry at him.

Their cruel game of name-calling and shoot-to-kill quips toward one another was vital. It kept things 2-dimensional. It meant that no cruel word or secret revealed or practical joke taken a bit too far mattered. You can't get hurt if you aren't real. And you can't hurt someone who isn't real. You are pure. You are guiltless. And you are justified. All is fair when there are no rules. Now, suddenly, Sally was _enraged_. How dare he do something so, so, so- _human_. How dare he put her in that position? She wouldn't put it past him to have planned the entire incident out, near-death and all, just to fuck with her. He _would _do that.

Angry thoughts cycled through her head, but each time she came back to the truth. Deep down she knew this had not been planned, that what she saw in his eyes could not have been planned. Not even by Sherlock Holmes himself. This was real. He had to go and make it real. And she wasn't angry anymore, though she tried for it, not now that she had accepted that this was no farce on his part. She wasn't happy for his pain, even though she always suspected she would be if this sort of thing ever were to happen. But now it's happened and, no, she is not happy. She does not feel triumphant. If she were to admit it to herself, which she is not quite ready to do, more than anything she feels sorry for him; and, god help her, an inkling of concern for the cocky sod.

It wasn't until almost a fortnight later that Sally saw Sherlock again. Lestrade had one particularly grim case on where all of the victims had been found with their hands gnawed off. Every one of them; gnawed off as if by rats. The thought turned Sally's stomach. Only a case of gnawed off hands would get the psycho on board, but the yarders were properly stumped about why anyone would set a bunch of rats on chewing a bunch of hands off so Lestrade made the call. Sally was sitting at her desk reading reports when Sherlock sauntered in. He was alone. John must be at the clinic, she guessed. Sally had liked John from the start. Liked him so much that she took it upon herself to warn him about Sherlock the first time they met. Recalling this first meeting, it occurred to Sally that John was in fact a doctor, and a very good one if the rumors were to be believed. How could John not notice Sherlock's rapidly deteriorating health?

Despite what the freak might deduce about her, Sally was not an idiot. You don't make it to the right-hand side of Greg Lestrade without at least something in your noggin. Sally could make her own deductions about a situation, and with her eye on the freak, watching him traipse slowly through the fluorescent office, it was obvious he was not quite himself. As much as she hated to admit it, she knew some- many, of the freak's idiosyncrasies. When you spend 99% of your life milling around with the same work-folk every day for five years, you don't have to care about someone to notice their little ways. And with Sherlock, everything was magnified. "Little idiosyncrasies" became "major flourishes" and a distinct habit morphed into an all-out theater performance for the consulting detective. With a character like Sherlock's, the consulting detective was never very good at keeping under the radar.

And the Sherlock walking languidly down the aisle of desks was not the Sherlock she had come to know. That annoyingly excitable spark at the most inappropriate time was non-existent. A case of five victims lying with their hands gnawed off by rats; that was about as inappropriate as it got. The consulting detective should be all but beaming right now. But nary a bounce in his step nor a twinkle in his eye was seen. And it's possible- no, certain, by her observations, that the detective must have lost at least ten more pounds during his two week absence from Scotland Yard. He looked tired. Sherlock never looked tired.

In some ways, even Sally had to admit that she was jealous of the consulting detective. Not because he was "more clever", as he was always so keen to point out, not even because Lestrade called him before her when he wasn't even technically- ahem, _legally_- allowed to be at a crime scene. No, she was jealous of the freak's complete and utter lack of inhibition. Or was it awareness? If he understood anything about common decency or the accepted norms of society he gave no indication of it whatsoever.

But even if he did understand when he was being perfectly abominable- no, especially if understood this- he kicked back at the world when the world kicked him. And sometimes when it didn't. Usually when it didn't. Did that make him admirable or an asshole, Sally pondered. An asshole, she finally decided. But damn, if she wasn't jealous.

Years of being picked on in her early adolescence by girls with perfectly straight hair and skinny bodies and then later accusations of making it to Scotland Yard by way of "putting in late hours" made her wish that it was okay to be a bitch back to a world that was a bitch to her. She was an ass and it only ever got her close to being demoted, or spat on by older, prettier girls in primary school.

Sherlock was an ass and people only ever gazed in awe. Or gave him an (often well-deserved) whollop to the face. But still, did that ever stop him? No. He just kept on ass-holing along, much like a freight train. A very loud, derisive freight train. Part of Sally wanted to solute him for this. Another part of her wanted to queue up to give him one of those face whollops. Either way, 'to be yourself when you're naturally as awful and morally revolting as the freak is- and then to keep at it your entire life, in true child-throwing-a-tantrum form' Sally thought, 'well that has to be admirable on _some level_.'

Sally wondered if Sherlock had been picked on as a kid. He must have been, she concluded. She felt bad. She had been picked on badly enough to know that no child deserves to be bullied. Anyone with half a brain could ascertain that you probably wouldn't get far in life as Sherlock Holmes without running into a few bullies along the way. The idea of Sherlock being picked on by anyone almost made Sally giggle, but the desire was quickly swept away at the idea of Sherlock as a child. There must have been a time when he was young and naïve. Well, maybe not naïve, she reasoned, but more naïve than he is now as an adult. There are some things that only time and experience can teach you about being human amongst other humans, particularly the cruelty of primary school children, and no amount of deductions is going to make those lessons any easier on a young boy growing up as a freak. This thought made Sally indescribably sad. The newfound guilt over teasing Sherlock came bubbling up again, threatening to become real and inescapable. Could it be that Sally was just one more bully in a long line of bullies set to take the piss out of a child in a man's body? Could it be that, like Sally, Sherlock is a bully on account of being bullied?

'Fuck this! What is this, an after-school special?' Sally thought suddenly, any feelings of guilt or tenderness disappearing as suddenly as they had come. She slammed her computer closed, disgusted by her sudden sappy demeanor. What was getting into her? This whole Sherlock mess was 1) not her problem. It was a simple case of being in the wrong place at the wrong time and 2) It's the freak. It's not the same as if it had been anyone else in need of help. The last few words of her train of thought abruptly caught her off guard, despite herself. _In need of help_? When had it been decided that the freak was "in need of help"? This was no good, no good at all, she realized.

Not one to put off the inevitable, Sally marched herself huffily over to the window next to Lestrade's office, straight over to where the consulting detective himself had been standing for the past ten minutes, presumably thinking of the various rodents populating the London area. The walk up behind Sherlock gave Sally an opportunity to make some observations of her own. The grand coat that normally aided the detective in achieving his usual pompous demeanor now hung unceremoniously off the wasting detective's shoulders. Maybe it wasn't just the coat that makes the consulting detective seem larger than life, Sally thought off-handedly. Whatever intangible quality it was, it was now missing. The detective was neither pompous nor larger than life now. The billowing fabric no longer looked bespoke on his shrinking form, now draped haphazardly around his shrunken body, hands hooked in the pockets. Disconcertingly, the detective now resembled a grumpy teenager in need of an attitude adjustment instead of the usual stately git who carried an almost regal aura. If anything, he seemed - exhausted. Beat. Uninterested. _Hands-Gnawed-Off-By-Rats _and the freak wasn't interested. For once, god help her, this worried Sally. The irony did not escape her.

If this nagging need to fix things, to put them back to the old days of being able to despise the freak in peace wasn't going to go away on its own, she would be obliged to help the process along.

"Oi, freak. You don't look so good. What is it, then? Near ten pounds you lost since your little tumble?" The natural tendency to make everything directed at Sherlock sound vicious surprised her, as it had been unintended. She wasn't entirely sure what she had intended. Sherlock, on the other hand, did not look surprised.

"Sally. To what do I owe this pleasure? Anderson's wife is back in town, I assume this explains your lack of anything _better _to do right now. Go away. I'm trying to think." The words were as accurate and maddening as ever, but the customary seething punch-to-the gut spite that usually peppered the detective's snipes was all but absent.

"I meant it, you know." If Sally had blinked at that precise moment she would have surely missed the micro-expression that flit across the consulting detective's face. What was it, confusion? Maybe he's getting sloppy, unable to deduce what it was Sally had been referring to.

"I'm unaware of what you're referring to but I'm almost positive it will be a waste of your breath and of my time. I have work to do seeing as you lot are so bad at doing it yourselves."

"I _meant _it," Sally tried again, attempting to hold back her scorn for as long as possible. "You're _ill_. You need to go to hospital." There. She said it. Job done.

"John has been traipsing about the clinic near constantly the past few weeks, bringing incapacitating human child grime back with him every time he comes home. It's no wonder I'm ill. I fail to see your point. Now if you'll-"

The freak was not getting off this easily. Despite wielding the same shrewd commentary the consulting detective customarily sported, the lack of conviction was disconcerting. If Sally hadn't known any better she would have sworn the freak was simply trying to play her for a fool and flee the conversation. Sally was done with niceties.

"You know perfectly well that you're not ill with a cold! This-" Sally was unsure what to call Sherlock's condition, gesturing sweepingly toward his body, pondering what on earth could debilitate a person so quickly if it were not in fact something illegal. "This isn't normal, this doesn't happen with a cold or the flu and it doesn't happen over only a few weeks time."

"I fail to see your point, nor how my body is any of your business. Now if you'll please excuse me, I have some rats to catch!" and with that, Sherlock flounced off, coat billowing, as dramatic as ever. Yet upon turning around it became clear to Sally that the momentary return to normalcy- well, normal for Sherlock, anyway- hadn't lasted, had been a show, and a good one at that. Sally watched the consulting detective slowly and unsteadily make his way towards the restroom, no wiser than she had been before her failed attempt at fixing whatever _this _was, and wondered why she even gave a shit. And why she somehow still did.


	4. Chapter 4

Seething with anger, Sally took quick, shallow, shaking breaths in and out through her nose. She clenched her fists. Unclenched her fists. Clenched. Unclenched. She was _done _with _that freak _assuming she was some dumb bimbo, just like everyone else. And _this_, the freak thinking she was stupid enough to believe that this new sad excuse for a human body traipsing around _her _office was ill with some, some _cold_- _This _would not do. This would not do at _all_.

_Clenched_.

Sally felt her feet pound into the carpet beneath her, but soon realized she was stomping her way across the office; through desks and sergeants in their little suits and dress suits, with their grande mocha cappuccinos, through piles of paperwork and red flag files, straight to the restroom with the sign with the stick figure of the little man on it and before she knew it there was a fist in front of her face, which proceeded to pound into the little stick man, swinging the door open hard. Was that her fist? Had she done that? She had little time to dwell on the matter as she stomped her way into the dimly lit bathroom before finally stopping beside the first sink in the row of sinks. Not much registered in her still agitated state, primal energy coursing through her veins, although she did note the distinct smell of bleach and urine. A part of her, somewhere in the back of her mind, did bother to wonder 'What on Earth am I doing?' Though that thought was pushed away rather easily and quite abruptly.

"You." Silence. "You!" She hissed, her voice gravelly from seething, rapidly growing annoyance. What had she meant? Was she now fighting with bathroom stalls? But no. No, a rustling and then a creaking and then the third stall from the left opened and out walked the freak. Sally could not help but lose some of her fighting power when she saw the state of the consulting detective. Clothes disheveled, eyes bloodshot, and leaning, seemingly breathless against the side of the stall, something was off. Something was definitely off, Sally quickly detected.

"Sherlock-" Had she just used his name? What was happening to her? She knew this would not go unnoticed by Sherlock and wondered what he would make of it.

"Sorry, this was the men's bathroom the last time I checked."

The strangled, croaking voice that escaped the consulting detective's throat surprised Sally so much that she wasn't even irritated by the sarcastic quip that had just been hurled in her direction. The distinctive baritone voice was now gone and those characteristically self-assured eyes were now flitting around the bathroom as if looking for a fire escape amidst a blaze. Sally stood dumb-founded four feet in front of the spectacle, staring, well, dumbly.

"Excuse me, Inspector Donovan. I think it's customary to wash one's hands after using the loo. You don't mind, do you? Are you the bathroom monitor now? Are you going to report me to Lestrade if I use too many paper towels?"

Sally stood for a moment, still stupefied, before moving over a few feet to let Sherlock pass. He proceeded to turn the water on and wash his hands, back now turned from Sally, seemingly through with the conversation.

"Sherlock."

"Oh, what now?!" Sherlock pleaded suddenly, helplessly. The emotion in his reaction surprised Sally but she pressed on.

"Sherlock, were you sick just now?"

"No."

A pause and then - "Were you using in there?"

"In the bathroom of Scotland Yard? Even Anderson couldn't be daft enough to do that. Then again, given that _you _had that idea, maybe he is."

"What's wrong with you then?" Sally asked, exasperated.

Suddenly, Sherlock spun in a coat-whirling half circle and moved two swift steps in Sally's direction before stopping and fixing her with a mightier-than-though glare that could have frozen any criminal. It certainly froze Sally.

"Nothing is wrong with me! Is something wrong with you?" The deep baritone voice echoed off the white-tiled walls and sped on like a freight train. "Is there no escape from your incessant questioning?! I'm not using anything. I'm not dying. And I'm not in need of your ridiculous hypotheses about my health so if you would _please _let me use the restroom in peace I would quite appreciate it!"

After the initial shock of Sherlock's sudden outburst and of being reprimanded like a child, Sally stepped forward and stuck her finger right up close to Sherlock's face and fixed him with a glare of her own. "You listen here, _freak_. I couldn't care less about what kind of illness you have or what you stick into your arm but there are real cases here. Real cases with real human lives at stake. And for whatever strange reason Lestrade has for keeping a psychopath like you around, god knows why, the fact is, he does. I'm not going to just sit here and watch some crack heroin cocaine whatever the hell it is you've mixed yourself up in junkie tinker with all those lives. Contrary to what you may believe, we actually do work here. We save people. And you're selfish insistence on contaminating those cases with whatever the hell- _this _is, that's not something I'm going to stand around and watch!"

Sally felt that old familiar floating feeling she always got after a particularly well-delivered blow to the freak. She stuck her hands on her hips and turned her cheek from the insufferable bastard. She knew being on her high-horse would be short-lived though, however well deserved it was. It never lasted. It never took too long for the freak to offer a rebuttal, and more often than not (a lot more often than not, if Sally was honest with herself), Sherlock bested her in their back-and-forth battle. Sally gritted her teeth, awaiting the litany of abuse she had coming her way.

Only it didn't come. After the silence stretched for a few seconds too long, Sally glanced at the consulting detective from the corner of her eye before fully turning her face back in his direction. "Oi! Say something then. Let's get this over with."

Only no words came in her direction. Instead, Sherlock seemed to have no reaction whatsoever to her comments for a few moments then, finally, walked straight past Sally and out through the restroom door. Sally stood motionless for a few seconds, confused, before quickly following his lead.

"Where do you think you're going?" The words received a few surprised glances but none of them were from Sherlock. Although maybe it was more a reaction to Sally storming out of the men's restroom like a woman on a mission; Sally wasn't sure. Still, Sherlock was nowhere to be seen. 'Great,' she thought. 'Now I'm shouting at random people. Good riddance he's gone' Sally concluded, before returning to her desk. She was already behind on paperwork.


	5. Chapter 5

It was a week before Lestrade started to ask around for the consulting detective. It wasn't uncommon for the freak to disappear for weeks at a time, working a case alone, laws be damned. But Sherlock wasn't answering his phone or his texts, including a text letting him in on a particularly gruesome triple murder involving a headless tourist in a gypsy cab.

"Have you seen Sherlock lately?" Lestrade asked, a hint of concern evident in his voice. Lestrade was always concerned for Sherlock. Anderson used John's almost-constant presence to mess with Sherlock, but Lestrade had always been just as hopelessly leashed to the consulting detective as John was, if not more-so over time, only Lestrade's rank as boss sparing him from Anderson's daily deluge of insults.

Sally remembered when John had first appeared. They had staged a fake drugs bust (nothing new) and John had been charmingly surprised by the whole ordeal. Sally had been giving the flat a last shot scouring for any evidence she might find that would incriminate the consulting freak, so mostly only heard a muffled exchange between Lestrade and John. But she did hear Lestrade admit that he needed Sherlock. She did hear that. So Sally let slide the fact that Lestrade seemed stuck on Sherlock. It had been clear in his voice that Sherlock was less of a choice and more of a desperate measure taken with reluctance. A different type of addiction, of sorts. At least as far as Sally could tell. Or hope.

Sally wondered if Lestrade had picked up on the expression on her face. She was almost positive it must have looked like something akin to pity and hoped he hadn't noticed. Had she seen Sherlock today? "I'm having a fairly decent day. All evidence points to no" Sally deadpanned. It wasn't entirely true that she was having a decent day, but she really hadn't seen Sherlock since their conference in the men's restroom just over a week earlier.

Lestrade turned to move away from her desk, then decided against it. "A headless American in a gypsy cab. That's interesting, right? Even Sherlock would find that mildly interesting, _right_?"

Sally nodded in an attempt to appear indifferent. Truth be told, Sally had already begun to wonder the same thing half a week earlier. This case definitely had Sherlock's name written all over it.

Sally knew Lestrade had been looking for confirmation but she also knew that he already knew the answer. Everyone knew Sherlock especially loved the headless ones. Matching a body with a missing head was like icing on the cake for Sherlock. If Sherlock ate cake. Sally couldn't imagine Sherlock eating something as frivolous as cake. Beneath him, probably. She shook her head trying to clear her mind of the thought and returned her gaze to the massive pile of paperwork in front of her.

Lestrade didn't seem to notice her attempt to reclaim her solitude, rubbing his cheek with his hand, eyebrows knitted together, staring intensely through Sally's stapler before turning his paternal gaze back to Sally. "He's been off lately. He doesn't look well." Lestrade hooked a thumb in his back belt loop, slumping slightly on one leg, and let his eyes trail toward the floor, undoubtedly bogged down with worry. he looked old. Sally had known her superior for quite some time now. She had seen him look irritated. She had seen him look happy. She had seen him look puzzled. She had seen him angry and she had seen him tired. But never once had she seen him old.

An intense burn ignited in Sally's gut; an anger for the freak that spread from her chest out through her limbs. She burned hot at Sherlock's _take take take_. She hadn't considered it until now, but the combustible energy that defined the elusive detective was a veritable trap. Like smoke twisting ever higher to the sky; enticing, exotic, intoxicating. Sherlock was truly alluring. Sally understood that, in an objective sense. But then you get close and you just suffocate. There is no prize at the end of the game. There is no award. Sherlock walks into a room and sucks all the air out. And then he leaves. how Lestrade and John failed to hear their own gasping was beyond Sally. Even when he couldn't be found he managed to maintain this inexorable quality. Sally was infuriated, a feeling she came to associate with Sherlock, though it was more a habit than anything. But Sherlock made Lestrade look old. Honest, she wasn't trying to be the bad guy. But someone had to at least try to put the fire out.

"Well, boss, I've always said he was a bit off. More than a bit off. And he doesn't look well at all. Maybe we should, um- well, maybe we should _look into that_."

Lestrade returned his gaze to Sally in a look of reprove. He understood the implication. "He's _clean, _Donovan. I've seen him not clean, and this isn't it."

"Maybe he's on something else this time. What could it hurt to check? Have a look around his flat or something. It's not something I feel comfortable risking. Having a psychopath traipse around our crime scenes is damaging to our careers as it is. The last thing we need is a psychopath on junk ruining our team." Sally bit her tongue when a grimace passed over her boss's already downtrodden face. "I just mean, _sir_, that it's better safe than sorry."

Lestrade seemed reluctant to agree. Yet however long Sherlock had been sober for, there was always a chance of a relapse. "Just- Just let me talk to him first. Give him a chance to explain."

Sally rolled her eyes, frustrated at Lestrade's loyalty to the freak, even if she did understand his premises. Sally also felt a small wave of affection for the poor sod. If it had been her who had needed the benefit of the doubt, or anyone else, she was sure Lestrade would give it just as easily. "You're the boss, boss." Then back to her mountain of paperwork.

Why did London always have to be so damn chilly, Lestrade thought glumly, hugging the thin jacket tight around his torso as he ambled towards Speedy's Café. It was already half past 8 and he still hadn't eaten dinner. The low growl in the pit of his stomach reluctant to let him forget. It only took one ring of the doorbell for Mrs. Hudson to swing the door open, a look of surprise on her welcoming face.

"Mrs. Hudson, I hope you peeked out the window before opening the door for some random ringing your bell!" Lestrade teased. It was hard to imagine someone as friendly as Mrs. Hudson getting on with Sherlock, bless her.

"Inspector Lestrade! What brings you here so late at night? Oh, it's a bit chilly out there, isn't it? Can I get you a cuppa? I was just putting on the-

"No, no, Mrs. Hudson. Thank you. I'm just here to see Sherlock. Is he in?"

The brief look of worry that suddenly clouded her face did not escape Lestrade, but he decided not to press the issue and headed up the stairs to 221B where Mrs. Hudson advised he look for the consulting detective. A shuffling sounded from the lounge. Newspaper, perhaps. The top step creaked under his foot and the shuffling stopped. A knock on the door and a few moments of waiting produced before him the M.I.A. consulting detective himself.

"Inspector Lestrade! What brings you here at this hour? You haven't even had supper yet. Shouldn't you be heading home to your wife? Oh, of course. She must be with the P.E. teacher she's recently taken a liking to."

Lestrade had expected the barrage of accusations. It didn't even shake him that Sherlock knew he hadn't eaten yet. Same ole, same ole, really. What did still him in his tracks was the state of the consulting detective.

"Sherlock. I think you're the one who needs to eat some supper, yeah? Lost a bit, haven't you?" Lestrade couldn't help doing another once-over of the detective, who was in a blue silk robe approximately three sizes too big for him. Sally had been right. Something was amiss. Something was not normal. Something was very wrong. It didn't take a genius consulting detective to deduce that.

"I have no knowledge of what you're referring to. Do you have a case for me?" Sherlock spat with haughty impatience.

"No, I-"

"Come back when you do then. I have an experiment to get back to, if you'll excuse me." With that, the wooden door swung towards Lestrade's face. Sticking one arm out quickly the door made a banging noise on his palm as a slight sting spread across his hand.

"Actually, I think I'll have a cup of tea."


End file.
